‘Feel free to speculate.’
‘You are a very odd youth, Prince Teclis.’
‘I would not know. I do not have much to compare myself to. Only my brother, Tyrion, and comparisons with him are invidious.’
‘Why? Because you lack his health, his charm, his beauty?’
It was all rather too close to the truth for his liking.
‘Please do not hold yourself back to spare my feelings,’ said Teclis.
Malene laughed.
‘You have your own charm, and you have wit and more to the point you have very great potential in the Art. You are also much cleverer.’
‘Do not make the mistake of underestimating my brother.’
‘I do not. The fact that you are brilliant does not make him a fool.’
‘I think you will find he is quite brilliant in his own way.’
‘And what way is that?’
‘Show him anything to do with warfare and he understands it at once, instinctively. Play him at any game, any, and you will be beaten.’
‘Korhien says that he is... gifted beyond any young warrior he has ever met. I suspect you will prove to be the same when it comes to magic. I am not sure that is such a good thing.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the ones who are exceptional are the ones who are feared. Aenarion was exceptional. Malekith was too. There have been others. Prince Saralion, the Plaguebearer, the Daemonologist Erasophania. They are the ones who bring doom.’
‘There are others of the line of Aenarion who were exceptional too and they did great good,’ said Teclis, aware of how desperate he sounded. ‘The healer Xenophea. Lord Abrasis of Cothique who found a way to stabilise broken waystones. I could name a dozen more.’
‘Then let us hope you are one of those.’ She smiled again and it came to Teclis that Lady Malene, whatever else she might be, was not his enemy. She did not mean him any harm, simply because of who he was, or who she was.
That did not mean she would not turn on him if he turned out to be cursed, of course.
‘Do you think I could be?’
‘Yes. Now will you drink this medicine? Or should I pour it out?’
‘You would not poison me, would you?’
‘If I was going to, would I tell you?’
‘I bow to the logic of your argument.’ Teclis drank the medicine and grimaced.
‘It tastes foul,’ he said.
‘Next time I will add some peppermint.’
‘I doubt that would improve the flavour.’
‘No, but it would really give you something to complain about.’
‘How long before I feel the effects?’
‘Give it an hour to start working and then a couple of hours after that to take effect. By that time you should be dead.’
Teclis shot her a black look.
‘You are not the only one with a dark sense of humour, Prince Teclis,’ she said.
Teclis laughed. He was already starting to feel better.
The sitting room was quiet and the fire was still on. Tyrion was amazed. It had burned the whole time the visitors had been here. Such extravagance was unheard of in his experience. Their father stood as far away from it as possible, in a corner of the room, as if he felt too guilty to enjoy the heat. Tyrion felt pleasantly tired. His muscles ached. He had spent all day sparring with the wooden swords, first with Korhien and then with the warriors of Lady Malene’s retinue. He had loved it. He felt like he was finally getting to do what he wanted to do.
Teclis sat near the fire, wrapped in a blanket. He looked more alert than he had in quite some time. It looked like he was passed the crisis of his latest illness and would live. The medicine Lady Malene had prepared for him seemed to have done its work.
Tyrion was glad. He went and stood beside his brother, hands outstretched towards the heat. The embers burned orange amid the ashes, and small blue flames danced over them. Here and there they took on an alchemical green tinge as something strange within them, some trapped magic perhaps, caught fire.
‘You are going to Lothern with your aunt,’ Father said.
‘Both of us?’ Tyrion asked.
‘Both of you.’
‘Why?’ Teclis asked. He always wanted to know why.
‘Because you must present yourself before the Phoenix King. It is an honour that those of our line have long had to endure.’
‘Did you?’ Teclis asked.
‘Most assuredly.’
‘What will happen?’ Tyrion asked.
‘You will see his Exalted Highness, and he will be very gracious to you and tell you how much Ulthuan owes to those of our blood. Then, most likely, you will be taken aside and sent to be examined by a cabal of sorcerers and priests and seers to determine whether your lives have been bent by the Curse. For this you will be sent to the Shrine of Asuryan.’
‘They did this to you?’ Tyrion asked.
‘Yes. They do it to every descendant of Great Aenarion. There are all sorts of prophesies concerning those of our blood, some of them good, some of them bad. Sometimes, the seers present have visions concerning the future of those before them and speak as the compulsion of prophesy comes upon them.’
Tyrion did not much like the sound of this. He pictured something vaguely shameful and sinister here, and he did not like the idea of being singled out in such a way because of who he was, and from whom he was descended. Teclis, on the other hand, was fascinated. He had known a little about the process from his reading, of course, but his father had never spoken of it.
‘Do they cast spells?’ he asked.
‘Divinations of all sorts,’ said father. ‘From the simplest to the most complex. I did not recognise them at the time but I came to know what they were latterly.’
‘Was there any prophecy made about you?’ Tyrion asked.
‘They said I was marked for greatness by fate,’ said their father sourly. He gestured around the barren sitting room in the cold and tumbledown mansion. His expression was ironic. ‘They said my children would cause me great pain.’
Tyrion’s face fell. Teclis took on the blank expression he always thought masked his feelings. Their father laughed.
‘You did. Your mother died the night you were born and that was the greatest pain of my life. But you have never caused me any other pain, either of you, only sleepless nights. You have both been good boys as far as you are capable.’
It was not exactly a resounding declaration of pride or love. Their father could not bring himself to look at them while he talked. Instead he kept staring at the portrait of their mother above the fireplace.
‘I am not sorry,’ he said very quietly and almost apologetically, and it took Tyrion a long moment to realise that he was talking to her about them being born. The curious idea struck him that Prince Arathion could have avoided a great deal of pain simply by never having fathered them. He was a wizard. He knew ways of preventing conception if he wanted to.
Or perhaps fate would have taken a hand and seen they were born anyway. After all, what was the point of a prophecy if it was not going to come true?
Perhaps it was simply that their father had not known what form the pain they were going to cause was going to take. He wondered if Prince Arathion would have made the same decision if he had known it was going to cost him his wife. He wondered what it would be like to live with that notion, and only at the end did it strike him that his parents had conceived the pair of them anyway, even knowing it would have terrible consequences.
How little he knew of this quiet, unworldly elf with whom he had shared a house for all of his life.
Father shook his head and looked from Teclis to Tyrion and back again. ‘The two of you are going away and there is little I can give you save my blessing. I wish that there were more.’
‘You have given us enough,’ said Tyrion.
‘I do not think so, my son. And you cannot know that, for you have never seen Lothern as it truly is, only through the eyes of a very sm
all child. It is a wonderful place but it can also be a terrible one for such as you. It is a place of jealousy and malice as well as wonders and greatness. The Lady Malene has promised me she will look after you but I am not sure how far she will be capable of that.’
‘What will happen to us if they decide we are accursed?’ Teclis asked. He had always been better at divining the current of their father’s thoughts than Tyrion.
‘You are not accursed,’ said Father.
‘What will happen if they find us so?’
Their father smiled, thin-lipped. ‘You have always been very quick of understanding, Teclis. It has gratified me.’
Tyrion felt a stab of jealousy. ‘Of course, there is the possibility that they might find you so, even if it were not true. Politics can be a nasty business among the elves. I am glad you understand this.’
‘And you still have not answered my question,’ said Teclis gently.
‘I do not know the answer, my son. I would like to believe the best.’
‘But...’
‘But I fear that something terrible might be done.’
‘We are not cursed,’ said Tyrion. He believed that as well and he did not like the way this conversation was developing. This might be the last night they spent with their father in a long time and he would prefer it to be a happier memory than this.
‘Of course you are not, and I am sure you will both make me very proud.’
‘We will do our best,’ said Tyrion.
‘We will pass their tests,’ said Teclis.
‘Once you do, Teclis, Lady Malene will begin your instruction in the ways of magic. I would do it myself but I have the great work to continue.’
Tyrion looked at his unworldly father and wondered how unworldly he really was. He had certainly chosen the best way to deflect Teclis from his line of questioning. His twin’s face glowed with pleasure. He had for a very long time wanted to begin his studies in the Art and now it seemed like they were to begin.
‘And Tyrion, Korhien Ironglaive has offered to see that you learn the ways of the warrior. He says you have a great gift for it and few elves know as much about these matters as he does. Pay attention to what he tells you. I have heard it said that he is quite possibly the greatest warrior in Ulthuan. I am no expert on these things but I have heard it from the lips of those whose business it is to know.’
Tyrion’s heart leapt. He could think of nothing he would like more than to learn how to be a warrior under Korhien’s tutelage. Prince Arathion smiled, seeing the happiness written on his sons’ faces.
‘I shall miss you both,’ he said. ‘Having you both here has been the light of my life.’
The twins were both too excited to notice the sadness in his voice although Tyrion was to remember it well in years to come.
‘We shall miss you too,’ he said with all the sincerity of a youth of sixteen who sees only excitement and good fortune ahead of him.
‘I bid you both good night,’ said their father and returned to his workroom. The light burned there long into the night.
‘Lothern,’ said Teclis as if he could not quite believe the word. ‘It’s not Hoeth, but it’s a start. It has one of the greatest libraries in all Eataine. And Inglorion Starweaver and Khaladris have mansions there.’
‘The Sea Guard are there,’ said Tyrion. ‘Perhaps I will be able to find a place in one of the regiments. Who knows some day I might even become one of the White Lions, if the opportunity to win glory presents itself.’
Teclis looked as happy as Tyrion could ever remember him being. ‘At last, I will have my chance to see a bit of the world before...’
He did not finish his sentence. He did not have to. Tyrion knew he was thinking about his illnesses and the possibility of death. That always lay over his brother like a shadow even when he was in his brightest moods.
‘Maybe we will be able to get on a ship,’ said Tyrion, playing to his brother’s fantasies, ‘and go to the Old World and the Kingdoms of Men.’
‘Cathay and the Towers of Dawn,’ said Teclis naming a place they both knew he would never see. Teclis laughed. He was happy and that was infectious. Tyrion could not remember the last time he had heard honest mirth from his brother. The laughter stopped as suddenly as it came.
‘In truth, I will be happy just to see Lothern again,’ he said. ‘Just to see... there have been times when that seemed a wish beyond all fulfilling.’
‘What do you think will become of us?’ Tyrion asked, just as suddenly serious. He felt as if their lives had just come to some vast shadowy crossroads. It was like being a traveller lost in the dark in the mountains, who realises suddenly he is standing on the edge of a precipice with no idea how deep it is. Soon they would be leaving the only home they had ever known and voyaging to a land of strangers.
‘I don’t know,’ said Teclis. ‘But we will face it together.’
It came to him then that his brother was not as confident as he sounded, that he was seeking reassurance, as much as making a statement.
‘Yes, we will,’ Tyrion said, smiling. With the confidence of youth he could not imagine anything that could tear them apart. ‘You will be a great wizard.’
‘And you will be a great warrior.’ Teclis sounded as sure as if he could see it with his own eyes.
Tyrion hoped he would live to do so.
It was almost time, N’Kari could feel it. The ancient spells were weakening. The terrible ghosts were weary. Something was happening. Somewhere far off at the very edges of this great net of magic, something was beginning to unravel. The world was changing once more. In recent centuries the flows of dark power had become ever stronger. Something was happening out there in the worlds beyond worlds, something that was drawing the forces of Chaos to this mudball planet once more.
Perhaps the ancient dormant gates in the Uttermost North were awakening. Perhaps it was merely the whim of the Powers that they would return to this place and amuse themselves for a time. It did not matter to N’Kari what it was. It was the results that counted for him.
He sniffed with nostrils that were not nostrils and drew tainted magic into lungs that were not lungs. He had waited in the centre of this web of power for thousands of years, keeping still, drawing no attention to himself, accumulating tiny amounts of magic whenever he could, when he knew that it would not draw attention to his presence.
He had become familiar with the strange lines of the spell, and the even stranger paths left by an ancient race that lay underneath them. It was obvious that the master wizards among the elves had known about the presence of the ancient ways beneath the fabric of time and space made by this world’s original masters. They had incorporated elements of them into their grand design. It was both a strength and a weakness.
The strength lay in the fact that they could tap into the energy wells of the Old Ones, use their ancient grids to strengthen their own magic.
The weakness lay in the fact that the Paths of the Old Ones were corrupt and slowly unravelling and letting elements of the Realms of Chaos, the Daemon Realms in which N’Kari had been spawned, seep into them.
N’Kari had fed on that corrupted energy and regained a small fraction of his original strength. In a sense he had done the elves a favour he had never intended. He had helped maintain their construct by consuming a great deal of the Chaotic magical energy seeping into it. He had helped lessen the corruption of the ancient spell although he was sure that the ghostly wizards would not see things that way.
He had projected his consciousness to various points along the interstices of the Vortex where the waystones stood. He had mapped the whole huge system. He knew it as well or perhaps better than any of the elf wizards did. He knew where it was strong and where the protective spells held good. He knew where it was weak and the ancient defences were crumbling.
He moved a part of his mind now to the area he had selected. It was a waystone that looked out from a mountain top down into a hidden valley. It was a long way from any
where inhabited on Ulthuan and no one had come to it for many centuries to perform the rites that would strengthen it.
The waystone itself was crumbling. Lichen had grown in the channels of the carved runes, despite the spells that should have prevented its growth and burned it away. The very pattern of the stone was eroded by wind and weather and that was important, for the shape of the stone was as much a part of the spell as the flows of magical energy around it, or the runes chiselled into it. Every aspect had been part of its design, every element contributed something to what it did.
Now it was like a rusty nail from which a heavy picture hung. It was slowly bending and slipping from its original position and it would not hold for much longer. All it would take would be for something to give it a nudge, to apply a little bit of extra pressure and that part of the spell would collapse. The barriers that contained the vast energies of the Vortex would be punctured. Things could get into it, and, more importantly from N’Kari’s point of view, things could get out of it.
He knew he would have to be careful. The ghosts still watched over their handiwork and would repair it where they could. They would notice the collapse of any small part of it and if they thought any sentient entity was behind it, particularly any entity trapped within their realm, they would destroy it.
The greater daemon knew there would be only one chance to do what needed to be done. At best if it failed it would mean spending many more centuries acquiring the energy for another attempt at escape.
At worst it would mean complete and utter destruction. N’Kari knew that if the patterns of energy that made up his consciousness within the Vortex were destroyed, he would be destroyed forever. He had no physical form to anchor him and his connection to the Realms of Chaos was still blocked by the intricate wards of the Vortex.
He was only going to get one chance. He had better do it right. He shifted the focus of his consciousness to the furthest extent that he could, somewhere out in the deep ocean of the lands that had once been part of Ulthuan but had now sank beneath the waves.
Overhead he sensed a storm being born. He measured the vast swirls of air, the huge pattern of wind and moisture and energy that was waiting to be unleashed, and he reached out as subtly as he could from within the Vortex, feeding it dark energies, setting up currents and systems that would drive it in a certain direction.